


A Ball of Earwax, Semen, and Toenail Clippings

by etherealApostate



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: College AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-10-06
Packaged: 2018-08-16 18:10:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8112283
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etherealApostate/pseuds/etherealApostate
Summary: I'm not sober and I may have a problem





	1. Chapter 1

Rick’s hands were shaking. Rick’s ears were ringing. Rick felt a sweet vomity tingle in the back of his throat.

He was unimaginably fucked.

The teleportal scraps were fizzling a foot away.

Rick’s knees dug into the concrete. The sounds of a busy bar were pressing dully against his ears from somewhere vaguely behind him. He shifted his weight back onto his ankles and ran an unsteady hand through his bluish hair; he slowly began to stand ---

The bar exploded into something fully audible ( _damn_ it. He was gonna be _stuck_ with this pair of ears!), and light rushed out, and something heavy barreled into his back. Rick found himself squashed flat on the concrete, one arm pinned under him at an odd angle.

His sense of smell, probably the least impaired part of him, registered a faint, musty alcoholic warmth before the person now on top of him rolled away and began standing. The ringing in Rick’s ears started to fade a little.

“—AND DON’T COME BACK AGAIN!” Someone yelled from inside the bar.

The guy who had been just ejected onto Rick may have said something, or Rick could have been hallucinating. Rick didn’t feel like he could stand. Turning a bleary eye to his left, Rick saw a hulking figure in a broad white tank top and jeans that had the soiled-stiff look of the only clothes of someone who didn’t do a lot of laundry.

Rick passed the fuck out.

 

Stanley Pines fell to his knees and vomited profusely into the street. Stream after stream of acrid undigested liquid came pouring through his mouth – five of them, five times he threw up, he thought some maybe splashed back onto his face but he wasn’t sure.

Too drunk to tell.

Stan finally raised his head, wiping off his maw, and looking to the right. Somewhere, he remembered the guy he’d fallen onto after being ejected from the bar (like he was vomit, and the people around him were a nasty roiling stomach).

Stan threw up again at the last thought. It sounded too close to something his twin would have said during an existential crisis.

After the last heave, Stan felt a little better and stood again, getting his bearings, taking a gander at the guy on the pavement who was in a quasi-fetal position.

On the sidewalk on the far side of Mystery Guy was some kind of broken computer lying in scraps of metal and glass and a puddle of weird green stuff.

Stan looked back at Mystery Guy and realized the kid was passed out. Yeah, kid felt right. Weird hair, mussy and bluish-grey; weird clothes, some kind of lab coat; but the kid had the frame of someone Stan’s age.

Stan stumbled the two steps between them and knelt down again. He shook the kid futilely: yep, passed the fuck out.

Stan pulled out his phone (double vision and screen cracks and _everything_ made it almost impossible to see) and, looking for all the world like a gorilla concentrating very hard to move a stick, he began to call a cab.

 

 

Rick began regaining consciousness to the sound of brakes squeaking loudly, very loudly, a foot from his head. Ignoring the instinct to flinch or roll away, he decided to just let sweet death take him.

Sweet death did not take Rick. Instead, someone else did, gingerly prodding his ass with – a boot? And then picking him up into an unsteady version of standing.

Rick immediately fell backwards, hit his head on something hard, then landed on something soft yet firm, and very smelly. The person who had picked him up adjusted Rick’s legs into the car, swore, and slammed the door shut.

A minute later, the other person was inside on the left hand part of the seat. Rick’s vision began to clear and he saw a guy – dingy tank top, nasty jeans, yeah, the same one who’d fallen on top of him – sitting there with the liquid posture of a drunk.

Rick’s hearing started to come back into focus and he heard an address being mumbled.

Lucky day.

Time to get sold into sex slavery, Rick thought.

Before he could get out of the car, maybe sitting up straight was a good first step (well, as straight as Rick ever got, he thought to himself).

That hurt, the sitting, but Rick managed something similar to an upright position. The cab started to move, and every flash of streetlight that streamed in through the windows set fierce throbs through Rick’s head.

Bearings were an impossibility right now, so Rick settled for a look at the guy beside him.

Rick’s captor/benefactor was a big guy, mostly mustly but a little chub, with a strong jaw and big frame glasses and thick brown hair. The guy had a big, statuesque nose that seemed to have been broken a few times before.

“T-to whom do I owe the - _guhhh-_ pleasure,” Rick said, belching up some gaseous remains of the drugged alcohol in his system.

The guy looked at Rick like he was seeing a boulder tap dance. Guy must be serious off his ass wasted.

“Stan.”

“Nice to, to meet ya, Stan. I’m Rick.” Rick offered his hand for shaking (the hand flopped out more noodle-like than anything. Motor skills were definitely not at 100).

Stan looked at his own hand briefly, then brought it up to the proffered one. Rick found himself in a gentle, slightly moist handshake.

Silence esued  as their hands parted. Rick let out a soft belch.

“You good to get home?” Stan asked.

Rick snorted. “Oh yeah, just eight dimensions south as the crow f-flies.”

Stan stared for about two seconds. “So, no?”

Rick buried his head in his hands.

“Fuck,” Stan said. “Fuck.” The vehicle was rolling to a halt; Stan could make out the blurry double-outline of the apartment complex outside the window. Even from an impressionist standpoint, it looked shitty.

“Ten dollas,” The driver said in a thick New York accent.

Stan grabbed his wallet out of the left ass pocket of his jeans and shoved a bill into the driver’s hand. It must have been a ten, Stan decided; either that or the driver was as drunk as Stan was.

Stan started to get out.

“Ya got a place in mind?” The driver aimed his question back at Rick, who was unresponsive.

Stan made a very impulsive decision.

He owed this kid, just a little.

“He’s with me,” Stan said.

Rick looked straight up at the back of the seat in front of him, as if he must have misheard.

One hand on the car for support, Stan made his way to the passenger side of the cab and opened the door for Rick. “C’mon.”

Rick opened his mouth as if to say something, but instead let out a surprised belch. This had to be another cosmic fucking farce, another rug the universe was waiting to pull from under him so he could tumble right back down the drain to sex slavery of prison or whatever nasty end this iteration of himself would settle at.

“I ain’t got all day!” The driver yelled.

Rick slowly climbed out of the car, knees wobbling, looking as if he might fall for a moment, but at last he stepped back steady enough and shut the door. The cab sped off abruptly.

“You live here?”

Stan did not dignify that with a response.

They went inside in silence. Rick paused by the elevator, but Stan just turned to the stairs.

“It breaks a lot,” he explained.

“C-cool. What floor?”

“Eight.”

 

Rick fell down between the third floor and the fourth. Not only that, but the back of his skull clashed against the aluminum railing with an alarming _thunk_ , and he stopped moving.

Stan bent down immediately, breath caught – what the fuck was he going to tell the police? Should Stan just leave him and deny any contact? He didn’t think anyone had seen them walking into the building – but then he saw Rick’s chest heave deep, and then Rick’s eyelids twitched open, and the kid tried to raise his head (he looked like he felt blurry from pain).

Stan almost just went to sleep on the landing.

Instead, after a gust of cold wind blew down from the smashed landing window, Stan sighed and lifted Rick back into a fireman’s carry and proceeded up the stairs.

Nine flights and two near-death stumbles later, Stan deposited Rick on the seedy couch in his apartment, then collapsed on the rug himself, dragging a blanket down from the armchair on the other side of him. A dizzy and deep sleep enveloped them both.

Stan woke up to death. It smelled like death – it was wet and acrid – it was in his eyes and ears and throat, it was drowning him!

He sat up, flailing, and realized it was warm vomit.

Stan grabbed the slightly crusty blanket that loosely encircled his waist and scrubbed in violent motions, trying to get the nasty sweet-smelling moisture out of his face. It stung his eyes and flooded his nose. He heard someone stirring beside him.

“ _This_ is how you thank me?” He finally exclaimed at the kid who was weakly wiping spittle and barf juice from his mouth on the couch above Stan.

“Urgh, s-sorry, man. Where am I?”

Stan threw the blanket aside and stood to make his way to the sink.

“In my fucking apartment is where, bucko. With your fucking vomit on _my fucking face!_ ” He pointed for emphasis.

“Just wash it off, dude. It’s not toxic.”

Stan make a disgruntled noise, thinking maybe he wished it was, because then this kid would be about as much trouble as the next obituary. He turned and took the four steps to the kitchen sink – walking hurt. Looking at the dull white cabinets hurt. They seemed brighter than usual.

As Stan washed off his face, Rick sat up and disentangled himself from the putrid mess of blanket, cushion, and barf on the couch.

“You’re going to clean that up,” Stan said, drying his face off with a rag of more than dubious cleanliness.

“Sure. Sure, uh, Sam.”

“It’s Stan.”

“’K.”

Stan bent down and took a long draught out of the faucet.

“OK. I’m gonna take a shower. When I get out, this mess better be clean, you better be gone, and I better have a nice-ass thank you note waiting for my hospitality.”

Rick grumbled something. It didn’t sound like English. Stan stared abjectly for a moment, then turned and headed into the tiny, grimy bathroom to make his ablutions.

When Stan emerged, clad in (again, but slightly in slightly cleaner iteration) a white tank top and jeans, no thank you note was present. Instead, Rick himself was lounging back on the couch, which looked damp but didn’t smell quite as bad as it had twenty minutes ago.

“You’re out of paper towels,” Rick announced.

Stan sighed loudly. Fuck. This was gonna be a long day.


	2. Chapter 2

Stan found himself inexorably correct, as his brother would have said. It was only noon, and the day was longer than a size queen’s wet dream.

Rick, the piece of shit, was splayed out on Stan’s sofa, halfway through Stan’s last bottle of whiskey, and scribbling something on a scrap of paper while rambling ineffectively to Stan.

“So that’s at least three cules’ worth of transdimensional calculus,” he finished, shoving the paper back at Stan, “explaining why I can’t fucking get home for another fucking week. At least.”

Stan blinked, looked at the paper for approximately two seconds, blinked again, and looked back up at Rick. The kid was obviously genius, with that level of bullshitting. And honestly, that didn’t increase Rick’s standing (ha, STANding) in Stan’s eyes. He’d had enough of _geniuses_ for a lifetime.

“Anyway” – and here, Rick said something that cut immediately to Stan’s interests – “I can pay you. C’mere a minute.” Rick stood, tripped over a blanket, and went for the door.

“Where are you going?” Stan half-hoped the answer would be “anywhere else, permanently,” but Rick’s final offer had been intriguing.

“ATM. Got one around here?” Stan nodded. “I’m gonna - _guuuuuuurh_ \- prove to you that I can pay my keep.”

Stan turned it over in his mind. He decided to follow.

 

Outside, they made their way through the chilly autumn air (Rick, though shorter, somehow walking faster than Stan) to the ATM two blocks away.

Stan kept an unsteady guard – this was a truly nasty part of town – as Rick punched in his info. Stan’s fingers were deep in the pocket of his thick brown coat, gingerly gripped into a set of brass knuckles.

“Here. Take a gander,” Rick said.

Stan looked at the figure and did a double take.

“When you get caught,” and Stan leaned in for emphasis, “I didn’t know anything.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Rick said with a slight snigger.

“Also, you’re buying the paper towels.”

Rick didn’t respond for a moment. Finally, he said, “Look, man, we got a deal?”

Stan shivered involuntarily. The last time he’d heard those words…. No. This was different. This was a slick kid, yeah, one who claimed to be an “interdimensional traveler,” but who, most vitally, had cold, hard cash.

Stan’s stomach rumbled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a full meal.

“Deal. And get us some Doritoes, too.”

“Hah. Sounds like good shit to me.”

The two of them headed back to Stan’s apartment.

 

 

Stan’s apartment was no incredible affair. Living room, small; kitchen, microscopic and bleeding ino the iving room; bathroom, (in both size and hygiene) more like a place where you would gas unlucky shelter animals en masse; bedroom, barely big enough for a matress (no frame) and bedside table.

Rick claimed the living room as his own. In a day, it was crammed with junk, bottles, wires, and the odd power tool, and Stan could barely worm his huge frame into the rest of the apartment. When confronted about the amassment, Rick just said, “I need it.”

That was it. “I need it.”

Stan remembered his and Ford’s room in senior year of high school – shockingly similar, equally crammed, more books than this, an invention every six inches. He suddenly near-missed Ford’s uninvited rants about the latest project or twenty – but then, the difference between Ford and Rick was almost welcome: after all, Rick at least shut up every once in a while. Constantly, really.

 

A week after Rick had moved in, Stan was sitting at the sorry excuse for a kitchen bar, smoking out the window and (for the first time in his short adult career) paying bills on time. As he sealed the last envelope with a vindictive lick, something occurred to Stan.

“Hey,” he called over to where Rick was seated in a clusterfuck of wiring and tinkering with some greenish contraption.

“What?” Rick glanced up to a thoughtful look on his new roommate’s face, decided it was of indifferent importance, and continued tinkering.

“If you’re some kinda garage-tool mad scientist,” Stan took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette, and Rick cut him off.

“Why don’t I just whip up a teleportal and power back to the hellhole that spawned me?”

Stan nodded and looked to the window. A mockingbird was somewhere below, singing like a goldfinch. He almost indulged in a memory – birdwatching with Ford, one of the few non-troublemaking activities they’d both enjoyed – but stopped himself.

“…And because of the rarity of Krenousian embryonic fluid in this dimension, it’s pretty much impossible for me to ‘whip up a teleportal’ right now.” Stan looked back to Rick, lost, and then turned to his cigarette resignedly.

“Besides,” Rick added, “I couldn’t even teleportal out if I had a working machine.”

That piqued Stan’s interest. “How come? The intergalactic government got a bounty on you?”

Rick snorted. “Basically. ‘S’not Intergalactic, th-though. Interdimensional. And it’s Ricks.”

Stan shot him a confused look.

Rick rolled his eyes. “I’m a universal constant in a lot, a _lot_ of dimensions. Big whoop, big cosmic joke more like. And there’s a lot of variation in Ricks. And the number of Ricks that combine my level—“ He thumped his temple with the green device – “of genius with an ass-licking affinity for bureaucracy, w-well, that's truly nauseating.” He set the contraption down and nimbly slipped through the piles of junk to where Stan was sitting, then grabbed a cigarette and lit up. “That don’t jive with me. And they've got a cross-dimensional stranglehold on all telportal activity. Only reason I'm safe here is, well, I crapped the big daddy teleportal tracker right before I got out of the Citadel of Ricks. They'll have had it back up for a while now.” He took a drag, coughed, and looked down at the package. “Ugh. _Pall Malls_? Really?”

Stan shrugged.

“You can afford better now, buddy.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“You could afford better than me,” Stan suddenly observed.

Rick gave a hoarse snicker. “Baby, I’d pay anything for that sweet ass.”

It was Stan’s turn to roll his eyes. “You know what I mean. Why stay here?”

Rick took another drag, flicked out some ash onto the linoleum, and made his reply.

“Two reasons, b-buddy. One, I wanna stay low on the radar. This dimension’s Rick died in a car accident in ’85. But there are…. Other complications. Couplea anomalous characters have sprung up as a direct result of my absence.” He took another puff, and Stan thought he saw Rick’s chest visibly inflate with arrogance.

“Two,” Rick continued, “There’s a reason I teleportaled so close to you that one last time. Ol’ Bessy, she had this fuckin’ A setting that I slapped on ‘er right after the Council – the other Ricks – got on my ass. Teleports me to the person within said dimension that has the brainwaves most suited to claking my, uh, unique – _uuurp_ —signal.” Rick looked directly at Stan. “That’s you. You’re my cover. Don’t fuck it up.”

Stan could tell he was being called an idiot. “Better stay on my good side. Else I’ll start taking revenge Mensa quizzes.”

Rick snorted again. They smoked in silence for another long while.


	3. why has god abandoned us

The next day was properly cold. Rick woke up shivering in his lab coat and a heap of what Stan delicately dubbed “science junk.” To make matters worse, his stomach was rumbling, his eyes were gummy, and he could smell his own body odor.

Fuck. Rick really hated having a physical form sometimes.

The best intentions of personal hygiene, however, were derailed when Rick remembered the auxiliary cloaking device he was working on. If he could just fine-tune the wave simulator’s fifth-dimensional output a little more…..

Then his eyes fell on the shopping list Stan had left. The scrawl on it was ridiculously illegible. Not only that was ridiculous, Rick thought. What did Stan think Rick was, his housewife? Rick reached out one hand and delicately flicked the list off the edge of the Goodwill coffee table. It floated down and settled halfway under the couch.

In perfect timing, the front door opened and Stan walked in, covered in dirt and half-dried sweat.

“Hey,” Rick said, and turned back to the cloaking-device-in-progress.

“Hey.” Stan pulled off his coat and made for the bathroom. “You get the groceries?”

“What am I, y-your housewife?”

Rick could essentially hear Stan roll his eyes.

“B-besides,” Rick said, “I don’t even know where the store is.”

That was a slim excuse (even though there was more or less no internet, and thus no maps, on the premises) and Rick knew it. Stan, however, accepted the semi-almost-apology and continued into the bathroom.

From behind the door he yelled, “We’ll go after I get cleaned up.”

And that was that.

 

The grocery store was, in Stan’s mind, certainly an inordinate walk away (a full mile at least) and was in addition not exactly a grocery store. Instead, it was a seedy package store that happened to carry food and utility items (and other substances, but those weren’t the kind you could display on the front shelves).

Once they were inside, Rick gave the shelves a once-over and scoffed internally, then resigned himself to occasionally fingering an item or two of interest and following Stan, who was actually shopping.

As Stan deliberated over the paper towels (Manuel had changed the brands, hadn’t he? The cheap off-off-brand Bounties were nowhere to be found) Rick elbowed him sharply in the side.

Stan repressed the reflex to backhand Rick with some difficulty. “ _What_?” Stan hissed.

Rick leaned in as well as possible when Stan had a full head of height against him. “That guy, the shifty lookin’ bald one. He’s gonna pull something—“

As if in direct response to Rick’s words, the particular bald guy who had been placing his stuff on the checkout counter whipped out a .44 and cocked it. The manager, Manuel, found a barrel aimed right between his eyes and let out a tired sigh.

“ALRIGHT, EVERYBODY ON THE FLOOR!” The bald guy said in a loud voice.

Manuel raised his hands resignedly. Stan froze for a second, then put his grocery basket down. Bald guy looked in their direction.

“THAT MEANS YOU, PUNK!” –At Rick.

Rick rolled his eyes and moved as if to get on the floor.

“ _Deck him,”_ Rick mouthed at Stan.

Stan looked a pure synthesis of disgust and exasperation.

Then, as both were lowering themselves to the ground and the robber’s attention was divided, Manuel swiftly reached over the counter and grabbed the gun, using one hand to deftly twist the .44 out of the other man’s grip and using the other hand to deck the would-be-criminal in the face.

Bald Guy reeled backwards into a rack of hard liquor and shot a panicky look around the store before shooting out through the door.

The doorbell’s ringing was the only sound as Rick and Stan and Manuel sat in the aftermath of the assault.

Manuel dusted off his apron and began appraising the Glock in his hand.

“Nice. Free piece.” He stowed it under the counter. “Will that be all?” he asked the two customers peeling themselves off the linoleum.

Rick gave Manuel a sarcastic thumbs up and grabbed an indiscriminate pack of paper towels off the shelf. As Stan righted himself, Rick slapped the basket onto the counter and said, “Yup. Ring us up!”

 

As they left the package store, Stan said, “I need a drink.”

“And you want me to pay for it.”

Stan gave him a dirty look.

“Hey,” Rick said, “Don’t blame me if some of us recover more quickly from traumatic incidents than others do.” He gave a bleak laugh.

“Are you saying you don’t want a drink?”

“Hell n-no.”

 

The bar was another mile west of Stan’s apartment. It was the only place where Stan actually liked the bartender, and it was the only bar he hadn’t been banned from, as of the night Stan had taken Rick home.

It also smelled like cat piss.

Rick’s furrowed brow softened as they entered. The stench reminded him of an old friend.

“The usual?” The bartender asked. He was a scrawny guy with a tired smile and a loud bow tie.

“Sure thing, Dale. And whatever my lady friend wants,” Stan replied. The bartender grinned and turned to Rick.

“Tequila.”

The two sat in silence for half of their first drink, watching as the bar got gradually more crowded, and Dale attended to other customers.

Finally, Rick let out a loud belch, and muttered to Stan in a disproportionally quiet voice, “Wanna get high?”

Stan took a sip of whiskey. “Do cows fuck on Tuesdays?”

“Statistically, yeah. A lot.” Rick threw back the rest of his tequila in one loud gulp. Stan took it slower; both moved to stand. Stan thought of asking Rick about his hair – but Rick was looking away.

Rick motioned for Stan to sit back down.

“Uh, on, on second thought, can you get us another drink?” Rick was looking shifty, Stan noticed.

“What happened to the cows?”

“In at least one case they evolve into the superior species. B-but wait. Just a minute. I wanna talk to this guy.”

Stan glanced left. There was a tall, skinny guy in the corner, wearing a sharp black suit and a top hat. Stan was half-impressed by the guy’s style and half-scandalized that the guy would wear something so fancy in a place like _this._ He had yellow hair; half of him was blocked from Stan’s view.

“You know him?”

“Now? No. Ideally? Biblically.” Rick departed.

Something uneasy stirred in Stan’s stomach. The mystery guy looked like he could be a complete fop, which Stan hoped for, because the other possibility for a guy dressed like that, sitting like that, catching the eye of somebody like Rick, was that he could be seriously bad news.

“Hello?” Dale said. Stan turned back and the bartender’s glorious Roman nose came into focus.

“Yeah. Another of both, thanks,” he said, gesturing at the empty glasses.

Dale snorted softly. “Well, yeah, but what I _was saying_ was get a load of that guy over there.” He jerked his head towards the corner – Stan glanced over and Rick was now sitting across from the stranger, back to Stan. “The fuck does he think he is?” Dale smiled a little.

Stan shrugged. “Dunno.”

“Does your lady friend know him?”

The uneasy feeling redoubled. “Not yet.”

Dale got a wise look in his eye. “So does he swing that way?”

Again, a shrug. “I guess.”

Dale picked up the glasses. “You know what I say; different strokes. You might be sleepin’ on the couch tonight!”

When Dale had refilled his and Rick’s drinks, Stan spent five minutes staring at the back of the bar, thinking, and beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol. He finished and started another whiskey. And another. Every time he glanced over at Rick, the blue hair was a little closer to the top hat.

Finally, Stan came to a decision. He stood, grabbed his whiskey and his coat and Rick’s untouched tequila, and headed over to the corner, where Rick was now sitting directly beside the stranger, both immersed in shadows.

Rick looked up as Stan sat down in Rick’s first spot, directly across from the stranger. The table was now littered with empty glasses.

“H-hey,” Rick said. The stranger was smirking a little. Rick moved a little farther away from his new friend, and Stan could now see the previously-darkened side of the stranger’s face. Stan’s eyes fixed for a few seconds on the stranger’s left eye, or rather, his lack thereof. There was simply a withered and sunken lid.

Stan looked back at Rick. “Getting lonely up at the bar. Figured I’d come and join you.”

“It’s not polite to stare,” the stranger said. His voice was like ringing metal.

“Wasn’t staring.” To Rick: “Brought your tequila.”

“Excellent.” Rick reached for the glass and downed it. In the seconds between the glass’ initial lifting and final lowering, Stan and the stranger simply stared at each other. It’s not impolite if it’s mutual, Stan thought.

Rick finally set down the tumbler. “This is Bill,” he said, gesturing to the stranger.

“Stan,” Stan said, and held out his hand for shaking.

Bill’s face split into a shit-eating grin, and he leaned forward far more than necessary to grip Stan’s hand. “It’s a pleasure!”

Stan dropped his hand after two shakes and took another sip of whiskey. They sat in silence for a while.

“What do you do?” Stan asked Bill.

“I’m a businessman.” Something in Bill’s eye glinted. “But for fun? Interdimensional physics.”

“Y-yeah,” Rick interpolated. “We were just talking about some, uh, totally unproven theories about transdimensional travel.” Rick started to giggle and immediately covered with a hacking cough.

“You know,” Bill said to Stan, “You look very familiar. I think I used to know someone who looked like you…”

“Maybe I have a twin.”

Bill just grinned in response, like he was in on the secret. It wasn’t impossible, Stan knew, for this stranger to have met Ford, but something in him hoped that hadn’t happened. That felt… dangerous.

“So, about that Krenousian fluid problem, Rick…”

Stan sat in silence as the other two talked. Both Rick and Bill had their hands on the table. Bill was leaning towards Stan but turned towards Rick; one of Bill’s hands was too close to Stan’s cup for comfort, and the other hand was inching every ten or so minutes towards Rick’s quarter of the table.

With every small movement Bill made, dread further distilled in the pit of Stan’s stomach.

“I’m heading back,” He said finally.

“C-cool beans,” Rick said, giving him a glance before turning back to Bill. Bill, however, called after as Stan was leaving:

 “Such a _pleasure_ to meet you!”

Stan did not respond.

 

Stan went home. He sat down in the kitchen, lit up a smoke, and started to play solitaire.

Something about that Bill guy was so very familiar. Something about his voice. Maybe he’d met Ford, but that was no reason for Stan to know him, not when…. Not when (and he forced himself to acknowledge the thought) he hadn’t had a sliver of contact with Ford in two years.

Stan looked down at the cards and found himself out of moves. Fuck. He was also beginning to sober up. Double fuck. Time for some water.

He retrieved a glass from the cabinet. Maybe he’d go jerk off in his room before Rick came back.

Then Stan remembered that Rick would probably be bringing _someone_ , bringing that goddamn _creep_ , and he suddenly just wanted to get some rest.

But just as Stan deposited the glass in the ever-growing pile of dishes on the counter, he heard voices in the hall, and the door burst open.

Enter Rick, Bill in tow.

Well.

Stanley Pines had seen some shit in his day, and he knew instantly that he was seeing _some shit_ right now.

One of Bill’s shoes was missing. Blood spattered both of their faces, shirts, necks. Rick’s eyes were out of focus and Bill had a vicious, feral look to him.

“You ok?” Stan asked, blinking.

“We are _so ok_ , Stan, it’s no even funny, Stan,” Rick said. He flopped back onto the couch and Stan both flinched at the _thud_ and found himself surprised at Rick’s composed, spread posture.

“Are we running from the cops yet.”

Bill was ambling around the cramped living room, sticking his nose exactly where it did not belong (in Stan’s eyes, anyway).

“Nope. Just pig.” Fanning his fingers, Rick gestured toward his face.

“Heyyyy, are these yours?” Bill asked, holding up Stan’s brass knuckles.

Stan stared with heavy eyes for a second. “Yes. Put them down. Don’t want you, uh, hurting yourself,” he said drily.

Rick burst into laughter.

Bill obliged, and held up his hands in a gesture of mollification. “No problem, Brass Knuckles.” To Rick: “Pretty good nickname, whaddayasay!”

Rick belched. “That’s a terrible nickname.”

Stan expected to be told to leave, to go sleep, to ignore the surely-impending sounds of fucking on a couch, but instead, Bill stepped into the kitchen and looked very slightly up to meet Stan’s eyes.

“Hey,” Bill said, and gently reached out a hand to cup Stan’s chin.

Stan grabbed Bill’s wrist and held it a firm six inches away. Bill just smirked.

“I hear I cheated you out of some quality time with our friend and a good spliff,” Bill said. “Wanna let me repay you? I’ve got some great stuff.”

“I’m good,” Stan said stiffly. “Not in the mood for weed.”

“I’m not talking weed.”

Silence.

“I’m going to bed.”

Exit Stan.

Bill walked slowly to Rick and leaned over the couch.

“I’m going to set you on fire.”

“You already have.”

Bill pulled out a lighter. “Not like I’m going to.”

Rick grinned.

 


End file.
